Ties that bind, hearts that break
by Jinxgirl
Summary: Santana comes out to her family. Her parents are supportive, her abuela, not so much. Slight AU, basically an imagining of how her parents may have responded in conjunction with her abuela's response. Eventual Pezberry premise.


It was close to eleven by the time Santana's father finally returned home from his shift at the hospital. Santana's mother, Maribel, had told her that he was supposed to be off around eight, but Santana knew from repeated experience that Dr. Lopez rarely got off when he was supposed to. Some crisis always came up that needed more of his time and attention, leaving him with close to none left for his wife or daughter by the time he finally got home. She had hoped that tonight wouldn't be one of those nights, but clearly it was.

The longer she waited up for him, the more nervous Santana grew. Her abuela had noticed her edginess, looking at her with her all-too-observant eyes narrowed through most of the day as she asked Santana with suspicion, on at least three occasions, whether she was pregnant, plotting something stupid, or using speed, because otherwise she had no reason to be constantly moving around so much and not looking her in the eye like a decent young woman should. The irony to Santana was that the longer she waited for her father to come home, the more convinced she became that to her abuela, all three of the above possibilities she had thrown at her not only were more plausible than the truth, they might also be preferable.

Her mother had seemed concerned as well, stopping and looking at Santana closely once and cupping her cheek as she asked her if she was feeling well. Santana had almost broke early then, blurting out right there while standing near the kitchen sink everything she had been repeatedly going over how to say in her mind, but she had pulled herself together and managed to nod her head and force a smile as she lightly batted her mother's hand away from her. She had not missed her abuela's eyes on her from the kitchen table, completely disbelieving, and she had then decided it was a better decision to go to her room until her father came home, lest she give them any further reason for suspicion.

Over and over Santana had played all the possibilities of her parents' reactions in her mind, trying to brace herself for any and everything they could throw at her when she finally told them what was really on her mind. She knew she had a safety net in Rachel and Brittany, probably even Kurt or Puck if it really came down to it, though god knows she would be driven insane by the prospect of reaching out to either for that. She was pretty sure she had a decent idea of what to expect.

Her mami was a traditional yet modern Latina mother- a homemaker, spending most of her time keeping up the house, yet actively involved with friends and family, with a passion for shopping. It had been she who taught Santana how to do makeup and influenced some of her fashion preferences, having dragged Santana to shop even when Santana was still a tomboy who cared nothing for her appearance. In Santana's case, she had faked it until she made it, and now shopping with her mother- although she generally made her travel to towns far enough that people wouldn't see that she was actually hanging out with her MOM- was one of the few ways they really spent any time together anymore, on an average of one day every month or so. This wasn't Santana's mother's fault though, Santana supposed, as much as much as her own. She had begun to pull away from her mother by the time she was in fifth grade or so, embarrassed by her accent and the fact that she was, well, her mother, when Santana, of course, was supposed to be independent, popular, and cool. Being home instead of with friends or out cheerleading or with guys just wasn't something that fit in with that, and so over the years, she had drifted from her mother considerably, until she felt now that she no longer really knew her, and her mother no longer knew her.

It was a different situation from her father. Her father had never been around much from the start. Santana could understand that, of course- being a doctor, he was obviously busy, stressed out, and distracted- and she could appreciate the fact that his being a doctor basically provided her with everything material she wanted or needed. But the problem of it was that what little time she had with him, he was distracted, stressed, and easily irritable, wanting things to run smoothly and without stress for him. A traditionalist and a patriarch, Santana's father expected his wife to run the household and his daughter to be typically feminine and causing him no stress or problems- it was his mother-in-law, Alma, who had, having raised Santana on insults, harsh truths, and emphasis to defend herself with aggression, regardless of whether physically or verbally, who had toughened her up fast from becoming the passive girl her son-in-law seemed to expect out of Santana.

Santana's father had been irritated and bothered by Santana's tomboy behavior as a child, to the point that Santana felt he didn't like or accept her unless she tried to change herself. She didn't like to overanalyze, but it had occurred to her before that this was where it may have started, her warring desires to be the tough, uncaring bitch her abuela seemed to expect her to become, and the feminine, popular princess that her father wanted. For as long as she could remember she had desired and fought for both their approval and attention, and it was their reactions to her news more than her mother's that she was really worried about.

Santana knew that her father loved her, as distant and uninterested in her as he often seemed. It was his way to ask questions without really listening for any answer other than the one he wanted to hear, to toss her a handful of money and seem to think that this was his duty towards her more than accomplished. She could count on one hand how many times she recalled him hugging or even touching her in the last five years.

But she knew, still, that he loved her. She had seen the genuine fear in his eyes, that night before he signed the papers for her breast implants, after he broke open the bathroom door and demanded for her to come out and stop crying. She had heard his voice shake slightly when he asked her if she was serious, that she wanted to kill herself over her dissatisfaction of her body, and when Santana defiantly screamed yes, responding in the heat of the moment rather than out of any genuine reflection on the matter, she had seen his face pale in response, the way he had automatically reached backwards for her mother's hand before launching into permission, granted in Spanish, for the implants. She remembered him gripping her hand, as he forced her off the bathtub wall and into the kitchen, his voice lowered into an urgent whisper so as not to awaken her abuela, as he made her promise that if he did this for her, she would never say such a thing again.

She knew he loved her, even if it was never spoken aloud. What she didn't know was whether her parents loved who they thought she was now, a typical daughter they could be proud of, or who she actually was, everything they may never be able to understand.

She had decided, after some thinking it through, that it was best not to tell her abuela at the same time or maybe even the same week that she told her parents. As bad as her parents' reaction could possibly be- and Santana had thought over every possible catastrophe- she was even more concerned about her abuela's, because even more than her parents' acceptance, she wanted that of Alma Lopez. To have her abuela's approval meant so much more, because it was so much harder to earn. To go three for three in one day would be too much, too fast.

So she waited until her abuela was asleep, hearing aids safely out, and prayed her mami wouldn't be going to bed early before her father came home. When Santana finally heard him coming through the door, she was already running on such an adrenaline high from her anticipation she could hardly sit still. She barely let him put down his things from the hospital before she met him head on, taking hold of his arm and already talking too fast even to her own ears.

"Papi, can sit down? I have something to tell you. Mami too."

Dr. Lopez barely glanced her way, in the middle of taking off his coat and frowning with mild annoyance as he found that his daughter was attached to one of its arms. Brushing at her hand for her to remove it, he said with some irritation in his tone, "Can this not wait, Santana? I have just gotten home and if this is not of importance then I would like-"

"It is, Papi," Santana cut him off, shaking her head, and although she did take her hand back to herself, she remained close to him unconsciously, enough so that if he moved, his arm would brush her body. She bit her lip involuntarily, crossing her arms over her chest as her father's eyes shifted towards her, regarding her more closely, assessing. "It is. Can we…I'll go get Mami, and we can sit down?"

It was asked like a question, and after a few moments Dr. Lopez nodded stiffly, as though to give consent. Though Santana turned quickly, leaving the room to get her mother, she saw the faintly mystified look on her father's face, the first glimmers of concern in his eyes, and her stomach cramped with fresh nerves, her steps quickening in her haste to leave the room.

Already this was so hard, all the possible words she had planned leaving her thoughts. Already she was finding it difficult to keep breathing just thinking of what the next few minutes might bring.

As Santana brought her mother back into the living room, gesturing for her to sit with her father on the couch, she sat at the love seat perpendicular to them, nervously smoothing her hands over her legs. She had changed into pajamas earlier, but it had occurred to her that it would be harder for her parents to take her seriously if she was wearing cotton shorts and a tank top with rainbows on it, courtesy of Brittany, and so she had changed into black jeans and a casually dressy top, the better to look serious and mature. As her parents looked back at her, her father's brow creased heavily, her mother's eyes soft with concern and reflecting a smaller measure of Santana's dread, Santana squeezed her hands on her knees, trying to settle herself by taking in a long, slow breath. She wasn't sure how it was possible to feel too hot and too cold, as if she would vomit or faint and as if she were about to run out the door without control of her legs, all at once, but it seemed that it was indeed.

"Santana, are you all right, mija?" her mother was asking, and she even started to get out of her seat, one hand extended as though to take her hand or cup her cheek. "You look pale. Are you ill?"

"Yes, what is this?" her father asked more abruptly, but his deepened frown also conveyed his worry. Both of them were looking at her, waiting for her, and Santana gritted her teeth, steeling herself, willing herself to get this through with.

She thought about Brittany, about the joyful smile the blonde had given her when she told her she loved her, the sincerity in her voice when she told her that she loved her too. She thought of how it felt for Brittany to hold her, of how young and happy and cherished she made her feel. Like she was back in time again, a child who had all the time in the world just to be, just to play. And then she thought about Rachel, about the pride radiating off the other girl as she told her that she was strong, that she was powerful. That she was beautiful. She thought of Rachel gripping her hands, believing in her so whole-heartedly, Rachel, who never lied, and Santana took another deep breath, sat up straight, and looked her parents in the eye as she spoke.

"Mami…Papi…this might be hard for you to hear, because I've…I've been keeping it from you for a while. I've even been keeping it from myself. All my life I've tried to be someone other than who I am. For you, for my friends, for Abuela, for me…but I just, I can't do it anymore. I can't, and I won't. I want to be real with you, and real with everyone else, and…and I hope that who I really am, that you'll…be okay with her. That you'll be okay with her and proud of her, and…and love her…just as much as you love who I was pretending to be."

"Santana," her mother began softly, but Santana shook her head, stopping her before she could continue.

"Just…please let me finish, okay? Escuchame, por favor…por favor."

She saw her father's mouth open, then close, and though he was leaning slightly forward, still frowning, he did keep silent. Another breath in, and Santana took the plunge, her stomach plummeting with every word.

"Mami…Papi…I don't…I don't like boys. I never did, and I know now I never will. I'm…I'm a lesbian."

She didn't dare take her eyes off of them, afraid that if she did, she would have to get up and flee the room, that she couldn't bring herself to look back again. Santana could feel her skin breaking out in goosebumps with her anxiety as she waited, could hear her heart pulsing too fast, too loudly in her chest.

Her mother was the first to react. Her mouth opening slightly, she blinked several times, her eyes opened wide as she tried to process her daughter's words. Making a faint noise of surprise in her throat, she stuttered, "What? Santana…mija, are you…"

"I'm sure, Mami," Santana whispered, predicting her question before she could ask it. "I'm sure."

"But…why would you think…Santana, sometimes things happen with, with girls, with friends," her mother continued to try to process, her voice soft, attempting to explain, as though she did not think Santana understood. "Girls are close, they like to touch, they are silly, and sometimes there is a kiss or a…it seems romantic. If they have been drinking…that is why, this is why I say, do not drink, Santana, these things may happen and you will be confused. Is this…did something-"

"No, Mami," Santana shook her head, more strongly this time. "I know. I'm not confused, and…it wasn't like that. The boys…I was lying to myself, not just you. I…I like girls, Mami. I love them. I love Brittany. Not like a friend…like a boyfriend."

Rachel's name was on the tip of her tongue, but she swallowed this back, because how could she explain that to herself, let alone her parents?

Her father had been silent, the lines of his face deepening with his frown, before he finally spoke, his voice slow, somewhat strained. "You are telling me, Santana, that you do not like men? That you…want to do…romantic things, with girls?"

He sounded as if he had never heard of such a thing in his life and was struggling to comprehend, but he was a doctor, Santana knew that he had. It was just that with his own child, the idea must seem foreign, especially considering his idea of his particular child.

"Yes," she said simply, biting the inside of her cheeks as she watched him, and he cleared his throat, shaking his head slightly as he continued to struggle to understand aloud.

"You have…done those things? No, do not, do not answer that," he said hastily, holding up one hand, as Santana, cheeks slightly flushed, opened her mouth. "I do not want- what I mean is…you are certain that these are…that this will not change, or is not a stage…something to, a game of some kind-"

"Yes, Papi," she directed her words towards his shoulder rather than at his face now, her nails digging marks into her palms. "I'm certain."

"Then…you have gone to prom, and dates, and…your, uh…enhancements…Santana, you said they were for boys, to, to attract-"

"It was…I was trying to be something I'm not," she tried to continue to explain, taking in another breath as she tried to control the continued churning in her stomach. "I'm sorry, Papi, but…I'm telling you the truth now. I'm letting myself know the truth. And this is it."

Her father was silent for several moments, just giving that dark frown, and Santana felt a shiver roll through her spine as she waited, sick to her stomach with dread. When her father finally stated, in a voice that was quiet, almost sad, "You have lied to me," Santana felt tears prick her eyes and fiercely held them back, swallowing hard.

"I lied to myself, Papi," she said just as quietly, now directing this response at her knees. "I'm sorry. But I'm telling you the truth now."

Several more moments passed in silence, and Santana fought the urge to leave the room, feeling as though her skin would burst from the tension building within her. Finally her father looked up at her, meeting her eyes, and spoke again.

"I do not know what to think, Santana. There is…there is some medical conjecture, about testosterone…the levels of exposure when a fetus is in the womb…and you, as a nina, you were always so…that is why the dancing, and…but when you were older, I thought…you seemed to have…"

"This is who I am, Papi," Santana said, when his voice trailed off, and then, steeling her courage to do so, she asked in almost a whisper, "Are you…are you mad? That I'm…"

She couldn't finish the sentence, and the silence that hung between seemed to take forever. She saw her mother's eyes dart between her husband and her daughter, seeming torn between comforting both or neither, and when her father spoke, his words slow, finding themselves one at a time, Santana could breathe again.

"Does this make…the girls, Brittany…do they make you happy, Santana? To…to be with them?"

It was not a question she had expected.

"Yes," she whispered, nodding, licking her lips. "Yes, Papi. It does. They do."

Another few moments of silence as her father appeared to be inwardly wrestling with conflicting thought. But finally his eyes rested on her again, and he said, "Then…no, mija. I am not angry. It is…it is what I want for you. I am not…I do not know, about girls. About daughters. I do not know what to do for you, or…what it is you need. But…it is what a father wants. To make his daughter happy. So if this…if this makes you happy…then I have no reason to be angry."

"He is right, mija…if this is…I do not understand it," Maribel Lopez spoke up finally, one hand going to rest on her husband's shoulder as she addressed her daughter, mirroring her daughter's licking of her lips. "I do not, but…I love you. If you are happy then…then I have nothing to object to."

Santana smiles, slowly at first, then more fully, giving a faint, relieved laugh, before the tears she had been holding back almost from the start of the conversation finally began to fall. Still smiling, the weight around her heart beginning to release its grip, she went to her mother first, bowing her head into her mother's chest as Maribel hugged her, one hand stroking through her hair. With affection that was rare for her to show her mother, Santana kissed both her cheeks, then turned to her father. There was rarely any physical affection between them, but as she stood there, smiling tremulously, and saw her father's attempt to smile at her as well, she moved forward jerkily and put her arms around him in a tight hug, pressing her face into his chest.

"I love you too," she whispered, tears still seeping, and when her father put a light hand between her shoulder blades, Santana thought her heart would burst.

They did love her. They still loved her, they weren't going to yell at her or kick her out or call her names. They loved her, and this gave her hope and strength she could not have imagined feeling just five minutes ago.

"What is this?" an irritated voice behind her asked in Spanish. "Why are you not all in bed? What is the matter with you, Santana?"

As Santana turned to face her grandmother, her cheeks still shining with tears, she was still smiling, almost giddy with her relief. Without a second thought, she blurted, "Abuela, I have something to tell you," even as her mother's face stiffened, and she shook her head at her quickly as her eyes darted between her mother and her daughter.

"Santana-" she started, but Santana ignored her, moving forward to the older woman and taking both her hands into hers. Looking into her abuela's narrowed eyes, squeezing her hands, she tried not to smile, to become more serious in her demeanor, but it was difficult when she felt like singing and dancing with joy.

"I want to tell you something important, Abuela. I told Mami and Papi and now I want to be honest with you too, because I love you, and you're important to me, so-"

"Santana, it is the middle of the night, what is so important that it cannot wait for a respectable hour to talk about?" Alma Lopez interrupted, but Santana continued all the same, squeezing her hands again.

"I'm gay, abuela. I love girls. Like I'm supposed to love men. I always have, but I was lying to myself and to everyone else, and now…I want you to know, because I love you and I want you to see me, all of me, not a lie I'm telling you. So…that's what I want to tell you, Abuela, that I'm gay."

Out the corner of her eye Santana saw her mother's lips thin as she looked down at the ground, briefly closing her eyes, as though bracing herself for something deeply unpleasant. But it was her abuela's eyes that Santana was really watching. The woman's already narrowed eyes slitted until Santana could barely see her pupils, and she drew up her small frame nearly even with Santana's height. With abrupt, harsh gestures she snatched her hands out of Santana's and backed away from her several steps.

Santana's heart dropped, and her mouth went dry as she realized what it was that was about to happen. After the reception from her parents, why hadn't she thought, why hadn't she planned this out a little better? How could she have thought for one second that her abuela might react the same way?

"Abuela-" she started, but her abuela was already cutting her off, her voice nearly a hiss.

"You think that this is something to tell people, Santana? You think you should spread this to others' ears, give them thoughts they should not have? You would lie with a woman like a man, worse than a whore? Even a whore does not do such things, Santana!"

"Mama-" Maribel started, her tone strained, but Alma turned on her daughter then, including her in her indignation.

"And you, hija, you would accept this? You would raise a child who would do such despicable things, an abomination against our Lord, and who would speak about it openly to respectable people, as though it is a thing of which to be proud?"

"Mama, stop this," Maribel said again, but Alma was almost yelling now, one hand pressed against her chest as her head whipped between her daughter and her granddaughter.

"I will not! I will not accept such a thing in my presence, in my own home! You are a failure as a parent, Maribel, and you, Santana, are wicked in God's sight and a shame to this family, to this household. I do not want to see or speak to you again, for as long as you proclaim this….this aberration of yours with pride."

"Abuela," Santana whispered as heat flooded her cheeks, stricken, one hand slowly drifting towards her mouth, but Alma was not finished.

"No! Do not address me, do not even look at me. I am abuela to you no longer, and you are no grandchild of mine."

"Alma, this is our home as well," Dr. Lopez spoke up, his voice firm. "I will not ask my daughter to leave her home."

"Then you are taking her sin onto your head as well," was her response, even as she headed towards the doorway to the hall, throwing the rest of her words over her shoulder. "I will remain in no room in which she is present and I will acknowledge no words she may direct my way. As of now, she exists to me no longer."

The silence in the woman's exit was broken only by Santana's too shallow breaths, loud and visible as she struggled not to simply collapse onto the floor at her parents' feet. As she folded her arms tightly around her stomach, her head bowing, and fought back tears, her parents remained close, seeming at a loss as to how to respond.

"I tried to tell you, Santana…she is of another generation, and she is…you know how your abuela is," her mother said finally, even as she lay a gentle hand on Santana's back. "It is difficult for me to understand, let alone her. It is not something she is able to accept. I am sorry, but you must have known that, mija."

"You are not often home as it is, Santana, and you will soon leave for college and be on your own," was her father's offering, his words gruff, even as his face remained troubled in expression, indicating that he meant to be kind. "Perhaps she will come around, and if she does not, then you will soon build life apart from us and it will not matter."

Biting down hard on the inside of her cheeks, Santana nodded, sucking in several breaths, and gradually straightened, shaking her hair back from her face and blinking back the tears in her eyes as she tried to respond to her parents in a composed fashion, like the Santana they thought they knew, the girl who could shrug off any disappointment and simply think ahead to her newest plot to make her loss her victory. She tried to smile, even as the pain in her heart seemed to spread slowly throughout her veins to fill every part of her body with nearly physical grief.

"I know," she said, even as she pulled away from her mother's hand, following her abuela's path out the doorway. "It's…I know. It's okay."

She managed to hold herself together until she had entered her bedroom and securely locked the door behind her. But she didn't even make it to her bed before her legs gave out beneath her, and Santana collapsed in a heap on her bedroom floor, sobbing until she was dry heaving, her body shaking with exertion of her emotion.

Her parents were absolutely right; she knew her grandmother, but she hadn't been able to keep from having hope that her grandmother, like Santana herself, might have hidden depths. She knew that she would soon be leaving, making her way on her own, but that didn't mean that she didn't want and need every bit of support she could manage to obtain before trying.

She had rendered herself a mess of tears, mucus, and saliva, given herself a pounding headache, upset stomach, and raw throat by the time it dawned on her to ask for support from one of the few people she could guarantee would give it to her, no strings attached, no questions asked. But when she fumbled for her cell phone, having to drag herself, crawling, across her floor to get to it in her physically weakened state, it was not Brittany, but rather Rachel, who was the first person who came to mind to call. At the time, this didn't seem significant to her; it just seemed right.


End file.
